No sign of Natalie yet.

I found that only mildly odd. I had seen it work both ways. Sometimes the wife was the first person to depart, trailing the coffin, sometimes resting a hand on it. And sometimes she was the last, waiting for the entire chapel to empty out before braving the walk up the aisle. I remembered my own mother hadn’t wanted to deal with anyone at my father’s funeral. She went so far as to slip out a side door to avoid the crush of family and friends.

I watched mourners exit. Their grief, like the southern heat, had become a living, breathing thing. It was genuine and palpable. These people were not here out of mere courtesy. They cared for this man. They were rocked by his death, but then again, what had I expected? Did I think Natalie would dump me for a loser? Wasn’t it better to have lost out to this beloved healer instead of a swarthy douchebag?

Good question.

The barmaid was still standing next to me. “How did he die?” I whispered.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head. Silence. I turned toward her.

“Murdered,” she said.

The word hung in the humid air, refusing to go away. I repeated it. “Murdered?”

“Yes.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. “How? Who?”

“He was shot, I think. I’m not sure about that part. The police don’t know who. They think it was a robbery gone wrong. You know, a guy broke in and didn’t know someone was home.”

Numbness crept in now. The flow of people had stopped coming out of the chapel. I stared at the door and waited now for Natalie to make her appearance.

But she didn’t.

The man who’d led the service came out, closing the doors behind him. He got into the front of the hearse. The hearse started rolling out. The first limousine followed.

“Is there a side exit?” I asked.

“What?”

“To the chapel. Is there another door?”

She frowned. “No,” she said. “There’s only that one door.”

The procession was under way now. Where the hell was Natalie?

“Aren’t you going to the graveyard?” the barmaid asked me.

“No,” I said.

She put a hand on my forearm. “You look like you could use a drink.”

It was hard to argue with that. I half stumbled behind her toward the bar and half collapsed onto the same stool as before. She poured me another scotch. I kept my eyes on the procession, on the chapel door, on the little town square.

No Natalie.

“My name is Tess, by the way.”

“Jake,” I said.

“So how did you know Dr. Sanderson?”

“We went to the same college.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You look younger.”

“I am. It was an alumni connection.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.”

“Tess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s family at all?”

“His son, Eric, used to date my niece. Good kid.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Such a tragedy. He and his father were so close.”

I didn’t know how to broach the subject so I just asked: “Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s wife?”

Tess cocked her head. “You don’t?”

“No,” I lied. “I never met her. We just knew each other through a few college events. He’d come alone.”

“You seem awfully emotional for a guy who only knew him through a few college events.”

I didn’t know how to answer that one, so I stalled by taking a deep sip. Then I said, “It’s just that, well, I didn’t see her at the funeral.”

“How would you know?”

“What?”

“You just said you never met her. How would you know?”

Man, I was really not good at this, was I? “I’ve seen photographs.”

“They must not have been good ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was right there. Came out right after the coffin with Katie.”

“Katie?”

“Their daughter. Eric was one of the pallbearers. Then Dr. Sanderson’s brother came out with Katie and Delia.”

I remembered them, of course. “Delia?”

“Dr. Sanderson’s wife.”

My head started spinning. “I thought her name was Natalie.”

She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “Natalie? No. Her name is Delia. She and Dr. Sanderson were high school sweethearts. Grew up right down the road here. They’ve been married for ages.”

I just stared at her.

“Jake?”

“What?” I said.

“Are you sure you’re even at the right funeral?”

Chapter 4

I headed back to the airport and took the next flight home. What else could I do? I guess I could have approached the grieving widow graveside and asked her why her dearly departed husband married the love of my life six years ago, but just then, that felt somewhat inappropriate. I’m sensitive like that.

So with a nonrefundable ticket on a professor’s salary, plus classes tomorrow and students to see, I reluctantly ducked into one of those “express” jets that are too small for guys my size, folding my legs up so that my knees felt as though they were under my chin, and flew back to Lanford. I live in personality-imperiled campus housing made of washed-out brick. The décor might generously be dubbed “functional.” It was clean and comfortable, I guess, with one of those couch-loveseat combos you see advertised in highway stores for $699. The overall effect is, I think, more apathetic than downright bad, but that also may just be what I tell myself. The small kitchen had a microwave and toaster oven—it had a real oven too, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it—and the dishwasher breaks a lot. As you may have guessed, I don’t entertain here too often.

This is not to say that I don’t date or even have meaningful relationships. I do, though most of these relationships carry a three-month expiration date. Some might find insight in the fact that Natalie and I lasted a little over three months, but I wouldn’t be one of them. No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Now what?

The man who had married the woman of my dreams was, it seemed, married to another woman—not to mention that he was, well, deceased. To put it another way, Natalie was not at the funeral of her husband. That seemed to warrant some kind of response on my part, didn’t it?

I remembered my six-year-old promise. Natalie had said, “Promise me you’ll leave us alone.” Us. Not him or her. Us. At the risk of sounding cold and perhaps overly literal, there was no “us” anymore. Todd was dead. That meant, I firmly believed, that the promise, if it even could still exist because the “us” no longer existed, should be declared null and void.

I booted up the computer—yes, it was old—and typed Natalie Avery into the search engine. A list of links came up. I started going through them, but quickly got discouraged. Her old gallery page still had some of her paintings up. Nothing had been added in, well, six years. I found a few articles on art openings and the like, but again all of them were old. I clicked the button for more current links. There were two hits on white pages, but one woman named Natalie Avery was seventy-nine years old and married to a man named Harrison. The other was sixty-six and married to a Thomas. There were the other routine mentions you would find for pretty much any name—genealogy sites, high school and college alumni pages, that kind of thing.

But really, in the end, nothing appeared relevant.

So what happened to my Natalie?

I decided to try googling Todd Sanderson, see what I could find there. He was indeed a physician—more specifically, a surgeon. Impressive. His office was in Savannah, Georgia, and he was affiliated with Memorial University Medical Center. His specialty was cosmetic surgery. I didn’t know if that meant serious cleft palates or boob jobs. I didn’t know how that could possibly be relevant either. Dr. Sanderson was not big on social networking. He had no Facebook account or LinkedIn or Twitter, none of that.